


bring me a dream

by paxamdays



Category: America's Suitehearts - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: (it's lightly touched upon), (sort of), America's Suitehearts (Music Video), America's Suitehearts AU, Angst, Drugs, Emo, Fluff, M/M, idk what else to tag, pete is a little shit, that's a tag right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 06:13:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16528979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxamdays/pseuds/paxamdays
Summary: It's 2 a.m., and Sandman is definitely not in love with the golden boy sitting cross legged on his bed.





	bring me a dream

**Author's Note:**

> I don't publish anything for three months and then I decide to come back with this mess of a story lol
> 
> I also have like 600 exams that I need to study for, but nah, fuck it, let's write a gay ass america's suitehearts au instead

When the sky is dark and the rest of the world has fallen asleep, there are only tiny staggers of breath to be heard, slipping out from under the small gap between the door and the carpet, like droplets of water dripping in choreographed time from a faucet.

Sometimes, when it gets to a time like this — Sandman wasn’t sure of the _exact_ time, though he was fairly certain that it couldn’t have been any earlier than two-thirty in the morning — he would find himself not being able to sleep. It was funny, kind of ironic, that it seemed so hard for him to just do that, to just _sleep,_ when his entire existence revolved around it. This morning was no different, as sleep had once again decided that it would not claim him, leaving him to stay awake and find something trivial to fill his time.

This _‘something trivial’_ came in the form of laying on the floorboards of the living room and listening to the turntable play a low and steady hum of Joy Division’s _Unknown Pleasures._ Sandman may have looked upon humans in disdain, but he had to admit, sometimes their music truly was incredible (he had jinxed the turntable so that it would only play _Disorder,_ as it was his favourite song from the album; currently, he was up to his sixteenth listen). But though he admired Ian Curtis’ voice greatly — what a shame for him to have left so soon — the boredom had begun to set in about half an hour ago, and Sandman decided to turn the music off and go back to the bedroom. Maybe he could give sleep another try.

Shallow breaths slid out of the cracks in the wall, slipping into his ears like a whisper, like a promise. He opened the door, trying desperately not to make a sound; but then his eyes fell to the bed, and Benzedrine wasn’t sleeping like he had been when Sandman left an hour ago.

He was sitting cross legged on the bed, a blanket pulled over his shoulders and his body turned to the window. His golden hair was messy and cascaded in white moonlight, fair skin glowing like diamonds. Sandman stood there, feeling kind of stupid because he was only wearing boxers and staring intently at this tragically beautiful mess of a person for a few moments, but he faked a cough into his hand anyway and hoped that Benzedrine wouldn’t question it.

The Doctor turned around, scanning his body up and down for a brief moment before grinning, the childlike enthusiasm making Sandman’s heart burn.

“Oh, good morning”, he mumbled, voice low and heavy with sleep, but there was something in his tone which made him sound happier than he looked. Sandman backed up this theory by further observation; he could tell from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the half-lidded gaze and the small and endearing pout of his lips that Benzedrine may have been tired, but he was just as alive as ever.

“How long have you been up?” he asked, walking from the doorframe and sitting on the mattress, not too far from where Benzedrine was.

“Not long. Ten, fifteen minutes, perhaps.”

“And...you’ve just been staring out the window?”

The sentiment was met with a smile. “Well, it is a lovely view, isn’t it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer; his eyes darted away from Sandman and back to the window, and Sandman just watched, suddenly transfixed and hypnotised, tracing the way his lips curved upwards slightly around the corners. And it felt strange, how he managed to be so perfect without anything other than himself and the lowlight from the moon; how could something so exquisite exist without being artificial?  
  
The room was dark with shadows, concealing even darker things which most would have considered to be the stuff of nightmares; to Sandman, they were simply his creations, mere artifacts made of stardust and a little bit of bitterness. Perhaps that’s why many feared it, why the mothers would hide their babies away, for anything he created, expelled, hell, even just _spoke of_ was met with the kind of disregard one would show to all things of the like; all the dark, gritty, terrible _nightmares._

_Stay away from the Sandman; he’ll take you away, away to the land of make-believe and curses._

Such were the rhymes aforementioned mothers would tell to their children, whom would grow up believing that the make-believe was something to stay away from, to be hated, to be _feared._ That Sandman was some kind of a monster whose sole purpose was to corrupt as many young ones as he could; because, obviously, all the bad things in life have to stem from one thing and _one_ thing only. Sandman didn’t want to be a scapegoat, but that’s not really a choice he’s ever gotten to have a say in.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, deciding that maybe it would be better to focus on the situation at hand rather than his poor misfortune of being pariah. Benzedrine turned back around.

“No, not at all. I can’t sleep. That’s not exactly your fault, now is it?”

“I could work a little magic on you”, Sandman said with a smile. It gave him a kind of charm that many would not normally associate with him. “To make you sleep. Give you a nice dream, all the bright and fluffy things. What should it be? Your choice.”

“Don’t plan so far ahead, Sandy. I appreciate it, but that’s not what I want.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

The response was hushed, as if Benzedrine wasn’t very confident enough to say so.

“I–I’d like for you to sing to me. If it’s not too much of a hassle.”

Sandman’s eyebrow rose so far up it practically went into his hairline.

“Well, of course it’s not a hassle. Nothing you could ever ask me to do would be a hassle. But...you _do_ know I can't sing, right?” he said. Benzedrine laughed.

“Yes, I am aware of your limited capacities when it comes to all things musical.”

In return, Sandman gave him an eye roll and a half-hearted _fuck you._

“But.” He continued on as if he hadn't heard a thing. “Like I said, I can't sleep. And I like your voice, regardless of whether or not you can hold a note.”

“If you like my voice so much, can't I just read you a poem or a TV guide or something other than singing to you, like, _really_ fucking badly?”

“I don’t care”, Benzedrine persisted. “I don’t care how flat or pitched or monotonous or grating you sound. I just— wouldn’t you _please_ do this for me, Sandy?”

Sandman felt his heart beat in his throat. He watched Benzedrine move from behind his heavy eyelids; a half-awake illusion, a mess of static and ruffled blonde hair moving slowly and pulling the sheet over his shoulders. The night made all things look more than they were in the day, and Benzedrine was no different; the stars whispered his name like it was hymn. Sandman pressed his eyes on to him even harder, until it felt like his lens would burst.

He truly was beautiful. Sometimes he would blink, or smile, or breathe in a way that made his chest push out slowly and fall down at the same pace, and then the light would hit him just right and—

Sandman was daydreaming. Or — you can’t call it daydreaming when it’s two in the morning, can you? — he was lost in a messy and convoluted thought. Tied up thinking about his Benzedrine, _my, my my Benzedrine, who wants me to sing him back to sleep, who deserve the world and I swear to god, I will give it to him someday._

“Fine. Jesus. Don’t— don’t laugh. Or cringe when your ears start to bleed.” Sandman shifted from under the covers and leant up against the bed head. “You can’t sue me.”

Benzedrine smiled and rolled his eyes. “What will you sing for me?”

“An old one. One that was popular amongst the humans at some point.”

The Doctor’s smile wavered.

“You make it sound as though they are any different to us”, he said quietly.

“Are you saying that they are not?”

Benzedrine sighed in the way one does when the world seems far too heavy.

“No”, he said, slow and sure. “They have their differences of course, their vices and their virtues and such. But…”

He tilted his head back and watched the clouds shift around the moon, like they were living, breathing things that knew that the moon was the main attraction, and they were merely background characters, a compliment to the centre piece. The sky glistened in Benzedrine’s eyes, and Sandman held his breath.

“They feel as we do. Experience pain and— what is it? Emotion? Yes, that's it, I believe — _emotions._ Rolls off the tongue nicely— _ee moh shuns._ Isn't it a fascinating thing?”

“Bite your tongue, Bennie”, Sandman hissed. “Don’t you go talking about that sort of thing like we get to pick and choose how we feel. The Hollywood Hills weren’t made for that.”

“Then maybe it’s just us.” Benzedrine closed his eyes. A sliver of gray moonlight slid across his face. “Maybe we are the exception to the rule. What good is it to live in a world without free will and control over what makes us do the things we do—”

“You're being ridiculous, talking about all this— this fucking _free will_ and control shit. The truth is, we _don't_ live in that kind of a world, okay, and you’re no better than some ignorant child if you do believe that goddamn emotions are things that demand to be felt. Listen to yourself— _what makes us do the things we do?_ You want to know the reason behind fifty percent of the stupid shit  _they_ do? Envy. Then it's a bit of heartbreak, and the rest is miscellaneous garbage.”

“What’s wrong with heartbreak, Sandy?” Benzedrine had propped himself on his knees and moved closer to Sandman, persistence hanging on every word of his conviction like his life depended on it. “And happiness and _sadness_ and—”

He stopped himself and seemed almost hesitant, like the words were stuck between his teeth. He dropped back down to the mattress and pulled the covers tight over his shoulders as if he would burst. The colour drained from Benzedrine's face, the permanent stains of rouge blush seemingly fading away into white as his eyes grew weary.

“Forget about it. Forget about the song. I’m sorry, Sandy. I’m being stupid.”

He slipped under the covers and turned his back; the wall was a silent companion, yet Sandman knew that it would have felt more alive and comforting to Benzedrine than anything else. Outside, amidst the ever-growing mass of clouds and stars — the ones in the sky and the ones down below, washed up and dizzy on complimentary champagne — the neon light fixtures spelling out _HOLLYWOOD HILLS_ in glowing red and white could be seen past the buildings and other apartments and the streets dotted with too green, artificial trees. The large letters held onto Sandman’s gaze like it needed to consume his very being, tear the humanity — that fucking _word_ — away from his bones and burn his flesh, like it needed to drain him dry until every last drop of blood and every last grain of sand had dissolved into nothing.

The lights shone like gold — it wouldn't have been right to compare them to Benzedrine, who wasn't the kind of gold reminiscent of plastic fillers and burning tabloids and fake, fake, _fake._ Benzedrine was a genuine being, a piece of artwork. The creator and distributor of every single one of the medicines and elixirs and all of the pills Sandman would consume just to feel vaguely _normal._

But that was thing, wasn’t it? That was just it. Sandman didn’t really love Benzedrine; he couldn’t. At its core, the deepest, unadulterated middle, it was ultimately just a mutual bond between the two of them. Pills and normalcy for one being, the constant comfort of sleep and a test subject for the other. Sandman had his never ending supply of _alprazolam, diazepam, lorazepam,_ silly names which often got twisted on his tongue, blues and yellows and all the pretty colours that started to blur together after a while — amongst other things — and he had the medicines, too, the ones that tasted like cherry and tooth-rottening sweetness. He had his Benzedrine — it’s just _Benzedrine,_ no words of ownership beforehand — and maybe he thought he was beautiful, intelligent and compassionate and caring, maybe he thought of him as some ethereal, otherworldly being who was too good for the all-round fucked up world of the Hollywood Hills. But that didn’t— that didn’t mean that he _loved_ him.

His eyes fell slowly back to Benzedrine’s body; he was so still from underneath the covers, so much so in fact that Sandman had to convince himself to stop worrying about the possibility of him having died from an overwhelming wave of stupid, stupid feeling. Could you die from heartbreak? Benzedrine had always been a romantic, even if Sandman didn’t want to have anything to do with the whole concept of love, and maybe this was the cataclysmic result of rejection, the crushing byproduct of Sandman taking the long way to say no.

He stopped breathing. _Fuck._

The sheets were like stone.

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_.

Without thinking, he quickly poked Benzedrine’s back; Benzedrine groaned softly and shuffled away.

_Thank fucking god._

Sandman pulled his legs tight to his chest. Goddamn.  
  
It couldn't be, could it? The stupidest thing humans let themselves become overwhelmed by, a dumb combination of lust and infatuation and rushed thinking. He was better than this — he was made of sleep, the bringer of dreams, for fuck sake, there was no room within in him for this. There was no _fucking_ way he could be in—

“Love”, he murmured. “You were going to say love, weren’t you?”

There was no real response; halted inhales and shaky exhales felt like enough.

“Yeah.” Sandman fucking hated himself so much right now. “Happiness and sadness and heartbreak. All the dumb things human feel. Love included.”

There was a shift of the bedsheets, and Bennie — _his_ Benzedrine, his one and only — was sitting up against the bedhead. Staring at the mess of linen and some black sand. He took a deep breath and dropped his head.

“It is dumb, isn't it? The way they let themselves feel towards others. Opening yourself up for one person and _only_ one person — no wonder we get to them so easily. Love, fame. They're not synonymous, but they might as well be. Humans let them both in all the same.”

He looked up, and his blue eyes were lined with red and glitter from the day before. He wiped a tear with his sleeve and laughed in a cutting way, like he had to convince himself to believe the words spilling out from his mouth. It was a jarring, broken sort of sound that made Sandman grimace.

“All of this.” A whisper; a broken one, at that. “Just from me asking for a song.”

“Just let me—”

Benzedrine held up a trembling hand. “Goodnight, Sandman. Hopefully I will have forgotten about this when I wake up.”

“Benzedrine, I swear to fucking God, just _listen_ to me.”

He watched as the Doctor’s lips, stained with a permanent smear of crimson lipstick, parted slowly, before shutting just as promptly. Sandman could feel a rattle in his bones, slipping through his bloodstream and into the depths of his chest, like an out of time tempo speeding past the usually organised rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Emotions are fucking stupid things that tear people apart, right?” he began; it felt like more than a necessity to choose his words very carefully, for even the slightest mistake could result in absolute devastation. “And they don’t even know what they’re feeling half the time, or why. But _love_ — Jesus Christ, love isn't a fucking emotion. I don't know what it is, and I don't even think _they_ know what it is. But it has to be something so much deeper than just a feeling, I'm sure of it. I–It has to be. You don't just spill out all of your dreams and fears and your entire goddamn being to someone just for the sake of it, it's not a fucking impulse decision. They have to be something so— fuck, I don't know, they just have to be _something._ And maybe you're my something, and maybe I— I don't know, maybe I love you, and I want to give you the world and everything else and I don't fucking deserve you and _I'll sing you a stupid fucking song, goddamn it.”_

They stared at each other, weary eyed and silent skeletons with their reddened heartstrings tied around each other’s throats.

Benzedrine — wide-eyed, lips parted, _like a fucking silver screen beauty_ Benzedrine — could have been the one who started crying. But maybe it was Sandman; he could hardly tell things apart anymore, and the sensation of wet tears slipping down his cheeks wouldn’t have really been that surprising.

Fuck.

He couldn’t stop heaving, and the sudden jolting sensation of his body wracking back and forth overwhelmed him with some kind of a force only comparable to electricity. And it hurt, Christ, it hurt _so fucking bad,_ like his tears were molton gold (gold, Benzedrine, everything was fucking Benzedrine, wasn’t it?) and they were leaving burn marks in his skin, blackened scorch marks, smoking like a gun.

 _“Sandy.”_ The submerged sound gave him some relief. “Sandy, Sandy, stop it. Stop crying.”

And then there were arms going from one to another, wrapping around a trembling body, yellow and gray hearts beating in time. Synchronised. Like a dance, like water dripping from a tap.

“I think— I think I love you too and— stop, stop fucking crying, because I’ll start crying, and I do _not_ want that.”

There was a bitter taste in Sandman’s mouth — blood and stone, expired sensations and an abundance of regret. What he was regretting, he wasn't exactly sure, but it was _there,_ and it pissed him off to think about it.

“I’m sorry.” And he choked the words out between sobs, like strangled jumps in a tape. It was so, so late, and he was so tired and so fucking stupid. He was stupid to be in love, because he knew that, from the basic knowledge he had acquired over the years from reading books and watching many movies and listening to numerous songs, that love hurt like a fucking bitch, and it was going to hurt him like a fucking bitch.

“You don't have to be sorry”, Benzedrine whispered; Sandman’s head was buried in his chest, but he could tell from an abrupt shaking movement that he was crying too. “Don't be sorry, Sandy.”

But love isn't a movie, or a song or a goddamn sonnet or whatever. Love is whatever Sandman wanted it to be and this.

This was it, wasn't it?

And it hurt so very much, but there was something looming beneath the surface that told him that Benzedrine was so very worth it.

“Am I stupid”, he said, star-studded fingers digging softly into his skin. “To have fallen for you? I'm in love, aren't I? I–I know that I said it before, but it doesn't feel totally real. I think that you must be stupid as well to have said it back.”

“I'm not stupid, and you're aren’t either.”

“Then you must be insane. Too many prototype potions. They’ve messed up your brain.”

“Sandy, you’re the only insane one here.”

This brought upon a small and broken laugh from Sandman; he was smiling, and the world had ceased from turning long ago, long before the tears, long before his rant denouncing emotions and humans and love. Long before Benzedrine and his soft voice and pained words had proven him wrong. The lights of the Hollywood Hills singed his skin.

“I do love you”, Benzedrine whispered. “Does that sound real enough?”

A beat. A pause. If this were a film, then maybe there'd be music playing, swelling orchestral pieces and delicate strings, or maybe there would just be dead silence, and the silence would say more than anything else the two of them could ever let leave their mouths.

“Yes.” Sandman pulled away, slowly, detaching Benzedrine’s grip from his skin, melting internally at the feeling of those star-studded fingers engraving burn marks into his torso. “Yes. It does.”

And then Benzedrine was staring, and again, his eyes were blank and screaming all at once. Screaming at Sandman to not be so fucking cryptic, blank because perhaps he was supposed to be the strong one, the one who had to hold things together without crumbling. Another beat. Another pause. He tilted his head slightly to the left and he smiled.

“I am hoping”, he murmured. “That the song you wanted to sing for me is the best in all existence, because we have endured far too much for it to have been in vain.”

Sandman smiled back weakly and whispered into his neck.

“Goodnight, Benny.”

•

In the morning to come after, when Donnie would ask why there was black sand and grey makeup around the corners of Benzedrine’s lips and why the rings around Sandman’s eyes looked darker than usual, the two of them would simply smile and nod, claiming that a restless night was the reason for it all. Truthfully, Sandman would never tell anyone that he’d been kept up, tossing and turning for many hours by the words _I think I love you too_ (which were, in fact, real enough). He would never reveal that the morning had made him realise that perhaps some things were better to be felt rather than left suppressed, and the world was made to spin in time to his and Benzedrine’s connected heartbeats.

Benzedrine kept quiet, too; the comfort of knowing he was loved and Sandman’s soft and flat rendition of a Chordettes song (the name of which had unfortunately slipped his mind) was something that he had decided was ultimately better to be kept to himself.


End file.
